


After Fall

by drinktea



Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinktea/pseuds/drinktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day she leaves is the day his heart breaks. These are the days after. Spans from the end of FFXIII to the start of FFXIII-2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and thanks for considering my monster of a oneshot! I wrote this after seeing the trailers for XIII-2 back in September of 2011, just hugely excited by what I saw and mind buzzing with all the possibilities of what could have happened in the time between XIII and XIII-2, and posted it already to fanfiction.net. As such, there are inaccuracies sprinkled throughout, but I hope this is still an enjoyable read. If you have any questions about this story or my version of Hope, please feel free to ask.

The first day after she left, he was shepherded off to Oerba.

Walking with Sazh and Dajh and Snow and Serah only made him feel lonely. Dajh was on Sazh's shoulders instantly, and the chocobo chick was flitting around both their heads, chirruping happily. Snow and Serah were holding hands and murmuring softly amongst themselves. They all had to be feeling the loss of Fang, Vanille and Lightning. But they also had someone else to help cushion the blow... except for him.

"Hope," Serah called, hand extended to him. She looked too much like Lightning, and he wasn't sure if that was why, but he went to her, took her hand, and began to  
cry.

* * *

The second day after she left, he heard them talking.

They were in Vanille's house. Sazh and Dajh took the bunk beds, poking at each other through the top mattress. Snow and Serah sat on one couch and Hope feigned sleep on the other.

"Think about what he's been through, Serah," Snow said. He sounded different talking to her, his voice softly rough. "Of course he'd act like this. His dad's missing, even."

"I know. But I think there's something else. I think he misses Lightning."

His eyes snapped open. He faced the cushions, so they hadn't seen his reaction.

Snow gave a restrained guffaw. "Lightning? Why?"

Serah must've elbowed Snow, because the sound of rustling fabric and a pained grunt came. "Ow. You know what I mean. I think sis is great. She's just not exactly the warm, motherly figure."

Hope gulped. No, no she wasn't.

"I can't put my finger on it. But whenever he looks at me, there's this scared, sad look that comes into his eyes. It makes him look even younger than he is." Serah sounded as if she were still thinking.

Snow cut off her train of thought. "Come on. We'll help him find his dad as soon as we're able. Let's go to sleep for now."

* * *

The fifth day after she left, he saw a craft crash into the surface of Pulse.

He was sitting on the roof of Vanille's house, resolving to hide his feelings better, when the ship tore through the atmosphere. The crash was quiet from where he was, but he could tell that it was monstrous.

"Sazh! Snow!" he hollered. "A ship crashed! It must be from Cocoon!" He jumped from the roof and took off, not waiting for them.

"Hey, slow down!" Sazh called. "Remember: we don't have our magic anymore!"

He stopped and grit his teeth. He didn't need reminding. He hated that magic so much before - his natural proficiency with magic only seemed to prove that he was good at being a hated Pulse l'Cie. But now he missed it. He half-smiled - it was a connection he had to their days as renegades.

Sazh's hand landed on his shoulder. "It's better to travel together."

He looked up at Sazh. How he wished...

He couldn't hide the note of sadness in his voice as he began to walk again. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

The 13th day after she left, he was hugging his father.

"Hope. I- I- I'm so glad you're okay."

"It's good to see you too, dad," he replied.

After that first ship had crash-landed, many others followed (though not crashing - thankfully the first ship had few injured passengers). Sazh, Snow, Serah, Dajh and Hope had moved from Oerba to the Archylte Steppe, the wide expanse a perfect place to land a craft. Of course, the various monsters that roamed made it less than ideal. They'd begun scouting for more hospitable places, more secluded places. Familiar with the terrain and itching to get moving again, Snow was constantly running to and fro with a contingent of soldiers.

Now, Bartholomew held Hope at arm's length, examining his son's face. "Well, haven't you grown up."

When Hope attempted a smile, his father knelt.

"Hope. I want you to know," - disbelievingly, Hope watched his father's eyes moisten - "I want you to know that I am so proud of you, for everything you've gone through and everything you've done. You've opened my own eyes."

And then Hope really did smile, and his father's tears spilled.

* * *

The 30th day after she left, he found an Ark.

By day he'd been recruited into the scouting force. (He thought that the Yachas Massif was a nice spot.) The military forces hesistantly gifted him with a manadrive, so he took point often, casting firaga, curaja and anything else with a skill that made them both fear and respect him. He knew that at fourteen, no other person had done what he was doing. But this was the reality of a world After Fall.

A new calendar had been instituted, and a new era entered. This was day 29 AF. They didn't count the first day he did.

So it was day 29, year 1 AF that he found the Ark.

Standing outside of it, he knew exactly what it was. It was even helpfully inscribed with the Pulsian letters for _Second Ark_ , though he wouldn't learn the Pulsian alphabet until later. All he knew at the time was that he was entering it.

No one else was around. He had his manadrive. In short, he couldn't have planned this better.

He found a chain made to pull the door of the Ark down, and put his back into tugging it open. The door creaked until it was halfway open, then its own weight began to drag it down. Hope narrowly avoided being hit. It was easier to open that than he'd thought. He looked down at his forearms, and for the first time saw that they were layered in new muscle.

As he entered, he felt his heartbeat pick up. He was looking forward to this. Fighting. No PSICOM, no Guardian Corps at his back.

He didn't know exactly how he felt until he stepped in and saw that the Ark was completely empty. Not a soul. He bit down hard, pressure building on his jaw. He fell to his knees. His eyes and nose watered.

The tears streaked down his cheeks and collected at his chin. Alone. He was alone. He couldn't feel her here, not by fighting.

* * *

The 103rd day after she left, he was sitting in a classroom.

It was so surreal. To be surrounded by four walls, still smelling like fresh paint. To be at a desk, with a pencil in his hand. To be around people his own age. School was just inconceivable, and he'd told his father so the night before.

"I'm helping the military right now, dad. Why can't this wait?"

Bartholomew had tiptoed carefully around his son and his moods since they'd been reunited, not wanting to crush any fragile peace between them. But he would not compromise when it came to his son's education. His resolve was absolute. "You are enrolling in school. Just because we're on Pulse now doesn't mean we can just throw societal norms out the window."

"I'm _not_ normal, dad! Not anymore. I'm a former Pulse l'Cie! Even if we stopped Barthandelus, there are still people out there who hate me, dad."

Bartholomew flinched. "They don't hate _you_ , son. They were just blinded by the fal'Cie. They hate _threats._ You're a fourteen year-old boy. You're not-"

"They know what I've been doing, dad. Everyone knows. I've probably even helped scout out spots for some of those kids' houses."

Hope saw what he was doing to his father. With every statement of fact, Bartholomew's mouth twitched into a deeper frown. He didn't want to hurt his father, either. But he knew what he wanted. He wanted to join the military, and he didn't want to bother with normal things like school.

"I'm different," he said.

Bartholomew sat. He put his head in his hands. "I know, son. And I'm not trying to take that from you."

His brow softened. What? His dad... understood?

"I don't want to take that from you. But Hope, you have to go to school. End of discussion," he said tiredly.

Numb, Hope nodded and left.

* * *

The 178th day after she left, he was sitting at a table across from Serah.

"How have you been?" she asked him, her voice too sweet.

He kept his eyes on the cup of tea in front of him. "Fine," he replied. "How are you?"

"I've been better," she admitted. At this, he looked up at her questioningly.

"Snow left a little while ago." Something about the way she said _left_ made him sit straighter.

"Snow left?"

Serah nodded. He noticed she was still wearing that oaf's necklace. The leave wasn't... permanent then. Or maybe Serah's heart was unerringly loyal. "He's gone to look for Lightning."

His throat dried up at her name. He hadn't heard her name spoken in months. He spent all his time with people who didn't know about her, who didn't know about the sacrifice she'd made.

Serah took a sip from her teacup, too dainty. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out a box and pushed it over to him. Social protocol dictated that he open the box and smile in thanks for what she'd given him. He stared at it.

"Hope, I... you don't have to answer. I'd like to know, though." Serah's gaze was direct, too much like her sister's, and cut right through him. "Did you love her?"

His neck arched downward. He looked at his gloved hands. He couldn't look at Serah - too short, too sweet, too dainty, hair too pink.

"I don't know," he lied.

For her, it was answer enough. She got up, paid and tipped for them both, slipped him her address, and said, "I'll be around."

When she was gone and his tea was cold, he took the box in hand. The lid snapped open like a crack across his jaw.

It was her knife.

* * *

The 365th day after she left, he was carving into crystal.

He came to the base of the crystal pillar not knowing what he'd do. Serah had been there recently, a fresh bouquet of roses on the ground, with a note anchored in it: _Never gone._

He looked up at the pillar, following it all the way to Cocoon. Some might think it beautiful. From his house, specifically from his bedroom window, he saw it every morning as the sun rose. Now, the rays of afternoon sun fell through the crystal, shattering rainbows across the grass.

He gripped her knife in his hand, and looked at the crystal base again.

He flipped the blade upward and locked it in place. And then he dragged it's edge against the pillar, back and forth, back and forth.

I, he'd carved. I for one. One year.

* * *

The 640th day after she left, he was wearing a robe.

"Congratulations, Estheim!" yelled his friend over the blaring trumpets and tubas.

"Yeah, thanks, Aaron," Hope yelled back, though with less volume. When Aaron leveled a reproving look at him, he laughed. "Congratulations to you, too."

"So, the Command Corps?" Aaron asked, clapping a hand on Hope's back.

Hope's mood fell. "No. I was offered a scholarship by the university, and I'm taking it."

Aaron didn't miss Hope's tone of voice. "Your dad, huh? Well, it could be a lot worse. You got yourself a scholarship." Aaron sent Hope the stink eye now, remembering something else. "And you're still young as hell. Sixteen? Get outta my face."

Hope didn't want to say that he was graduating early because he wanted to get out of high school as fast as possible. The sooner he could be done with school, the better. But to rank as high as his father did in the newly consolidated Command Corps, he needed a degree. And a higher rank meant he could do that much more. No way was he staying a grunt. He had plans. And if university was a necessary detour, he'd grin and bear it.

"Hope! Congratulations," a fellow graduate Claire said, bounding over to where Hope and Aaron stood. She hugged Hope tightly, which took him by surprise, considering they rarely talked.

"Congratulations," he said, standing nearly a head taller than Claire despite her older age. He'd grown a lot in the past two and a half years. He shut his eyes, wondering what she'd think of him now. He was at her height - 5'7".

"Congrats, Claire," Aaron piped up, holding his arms out for a hug as well.

He didn't feel Claire leave his arms. But he did feel the absence of someone else. He rubbed his left wrist for the brand that wasn't there.

* * *

The 832nd day after she left, he was up late.

"Tea?" Bartholomew offered, setting a heavy mug down on Hope's desk.

Hope took the tea in hand, but only to move it. He erased, then resketched a portion of the blueprint that had been underneath the mug.

His father knew by now that this wasn't schoolwork, and he didn't comment, except to softly say, "Not too late." Before he might have asked why Hope was drawing a gunblade, or designing a new manadrive, but he'd begun to understand. This was what kept Hope going.

Tonight it was something simple and familiar - a storage space and manadrive charger for his boomerang. The military certainly did not issue boomerangs as equipment, and though he'd learn other forms of combat if necessary, his boomerang was his weapon of choice. Manadrives were still improving, but he'd recognized that the technology would soon plateau. It seemed like the best time to design a type of charger for his boomerang.

He took a hurried sip of tea, set it at his feet, and continued.

* * *

The 1367th day after she left, he was listening to his messages.

"Hey, Hope. It's Sazh. The little man and I were hoping you could come out to New Bodhum, spend some quality time with us. You're done your university year, right? Call us back when you're free." _At 20 hours, 31 minutes, day 160, year 4-_

"Hope, it's your father. Come home." _At 8 hours, 47 minutes, day 161-_

"Yo, Aaron calling. Estheim, listen. Party tomorrow night. If you're not a loser, you'll be there. Corra's at nine, and bring some alcohol. I don't care if you don't like to drink the stuff, it's common courtesy, you know? And leave the wilderness in the wilder- _beeep_." _At 16 hours, 2 minutes-_

Hope sighed, sliding the phone down from his ear, and lay back in the tall grass. He had been camping here for two nights by himself, and he felt much better than when he'd arrived.

He was in an undeveloped part of the Yachas Massif. In fact, he lay in the very spot Vanille and he had promised to see Cocoon and Gran Pulse together, over four years ago. He closed his eyes and remembered the jangle of her clothes as she sat next to him, the messy red curls on either side of her face. _You promised me that we'd come and see Gran Pulse together._

Had he forgotten their promise? If he could forget such a promise, could he forget other things, too? It was weird, but right then he wished he'd forgotten something.

He wished that he had forgotten a promise Lightning made him - that all of them made him. That she would come back. If he'd simply forgotten, then... then there was a chance that he'd been operating under a false reality all this time. That all this time... she was just waiting to come back into his life again.

He opened his eyes to the blue sky. Nothing here had changed. It smelled the same, looked the same, even sounded the same. He remembered that it was quiet. A good place for being alone.

The time for that was over, at least for now. (He already knew he'd be coming back again.) He had to return to civilization sometime. That, and he needed a shower.

He called his father. Bartholomew picked up on the first ring. "Dad? I'm coming home."

* * *

The 1368th day after she left, he was tipsy.

He _knew_ he should've turned down Aaron's offer to get him a drink. Aaron was of the opinion that you did the best stuff when you were drunk, and that Hope did not do the best stuff.

"Asshole," Hope growled at Aaron. It was a groundbreaking moment - Hope never swore. It was probably the liquor talking.

Aaron, slightly buzzed himself, laughed obnoxiously. "Dude! You _never_ swear. Check that off the list."

Hope could only glower at his friend, and not effectively even, thanks to the stupid alcohol. His glowering was quickly interrupted by two very drunk girls falling on top of Aaron. He figured that was payback enough - one of the girls was wearing extremely spiky-looking stilettos and got him in the shins.

Spiky stilettos stood and revealed herself. She looked familiar. "Hope! Ohmygod it's _you_!" she exclaimed with much enthusiasm. And, of course, in her drunk state, she tackled him with a hug.

He promptly fell, bashing the side of his head into the wall. She fared none better, judging by the smudge of lipstick she left on the wall.

Tipsy though he was, he stood, ignoring the giggles and stares. He even remembered his manners and extended a hand to the drunk girl who just rammed him into a wall. She took it, but she tugged him down instead.

"Hope! I'm so happy to see you here," she told him. Her eyes were rimmed in red, enough of an indication to him that she didn't drink often.

He suddenly remembered who she was. "Claire," he said stupidly.

Her own name made her extremely happy, apparently. She beamed and hugged him again, pulling herself onto his lap. His internal alarms went off, even before she was pressing kisses to his neck. His stupid hormones responded strongly enough, but he kept his hands by his sides.

"Hope, Hope," she murmured against his skin. "I've liked you for _so long_ , Hope."

 _I've liked you for so long._ The words had him shaking. So much so that he couldn't stop her when her lips landed on his, and not when her hands edged up past the hem of his shirt. _I've liked you for so long._

* * *

The 1369th day after she left, he was tearing up his drawings.

His drawings of her gunblades - blazefire saber, enkindler, organyx, hauteclaire. He couldn't look at them anymore. His father ran in at the sound of the toppling trash bin and saw the shreds all over the floor.

"Hope! What's going on here?"

He had her lionheart in his hands, and the best he could do was crinkle the edges. He let the drawing fall to the floor. "Why did she leave me?" he asked quietly.

Bartholomew knelt at Hope's back. "Who, son?" His hand hovered over Hope's spine.

"Claire," he said. His voice broke. "Lightning. Why did she have to leave?" He pressed his hands to his face. He thought he had gotten to a healthy place. He thought he was alright. It had been four years - four years of carving into the pillar, four years of school. "I've loved her for so long."

His father's hand was rubbing his back, soothing. "Oh, Hope."

Hope sat, completely sapped of strength, beneath his father's comforting touch. _I'm sorry, Claire._

* * *

The 1571st day after she left, he was riding a chocobo down a beach.

"Glad you came, aren't you?" Sazh asked from his own chocobo, a little ways behind. "Only took you six months, maggot."

Hope sighed. "Would you let it go? I had to come on a break."

"You could've come over summer break, when Dajh had no school. He misses you, boy," Sazh remprimanded him. Sazh was ruthless, bringing little Dajh into this. Though, he supposed, at 11, Dajh was not so little anymore. "Your namesake missed you, too," Sazh added, gesturing at the chocobo Hope rode.

He looked down at the chocobo he was mounted on, and whose feathers he absently stroked. The chocobo practically purred. "Namesake? You named the chocobo after _me_?"

Sazh scratched the back of his neck a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, forgot to tell you on our last visit. It was Dajh's idea."

He continued to stroke the chocobo's feathers through this revelation, and the chocobo trilled, then stretched its neck to nuzzle his arm. He smiled.

"Ah, there's the first smile of the trip. Don't think I didn't notice."

Hope shot a glare Sazh's way, and flicked the chocobo's reins. His namesake started into a leisurely walk again, leaving prints in the firm, wet sand.

Sazh rode up next to him. "Now that you're gettin' older, you're gettin' surly. Ain't nothin' I can't handle. Tell ol' Sazh what's got you down."

Hope's fingers still worked their way through his mount's feathers, downy and soft. They'd cared well for their Hope. He glanced sideways at Sazh, and found the older man's eyes still on him. He took a breath in and stared at the sunset reflected on the water. He supposed the principle behind caring for another person or creature was the same, wasn't it?

* * *

The 1643rd day after she left, he was bleeding out the side of his mouth.

It was purely bad luck that had put a behemoth king in his path on the way to Vanille's canyon (as he now called it). He tried not to fixate on the fact that it would have been easy pickings for him, Fang and Light.

Wiping his blood away with the back of his hand like a guy in a movie, he circled the creature. All he had to do was fight smart. It had risen up on its hind legs, so he knew from experience that this fight was nearly over. He queued up several spells, kept his distance, and flung his boomerang.

After a few minutes the behemoth fell, and he collapsed to the ground in relief. His new designs had saved him, he knew it. He was glad he'd tinkered around with his manadrive in the university labs after hours. And though it did test his patience, he was also glad he'd made his new carrier. It charged his boomerang everytime he sheathed it, but he kept another manadrive strapped to his wrist if he couldn't sheath his boomerang to charge a spell. The ability to charge two manadrives made for much quicker attacking.

He sat up, groaning as he gave himself a headrush. It was probably best that he didn't camp out this weekend, given the condition he was in. Time to go see a doctor.

 _Take care of yourself. You're your own priority,_ Sazh had told him a few months ago, looking at him with serious eyes.

 _What about you and Dajh?_ Hope had smirked back.

Sazh waved him off, then. Hope could practically see the eyeroll. _That's different. When you have kids, you'll reprioritize. Until then, I mean it. Take care of yourself._

Sazh had been so sure in his choice of words. _When_ you have kids. Not, _if_ you have kids. Hope couldn't see what Sazh saw. He sighed, and regretted it when the wind whistled past his split lip.

Well, if nothing else, Hope could be glad he had two fathers looking out for him.

* * *

The 1826th day after she left, he was taking a knife to the pillar for the fifth time.

One, two, three, four, five. He slashed the four lines diagonally, bringing the tally to five. Five years since then.

He had finished his third year at the university. His designs for his boomerang and manadrive had drawn a lot of interest from the Command Corps, in addition to a re-established weaponry corporation. He was researching alternative energy sources as well, to reduce dependence on the fal'Cie. He had no doubt that he'd have a job - a good job - waiting for him when he graduated.

He'd grown so much taller - a graceful 5'10". Thanks to his insistence on camping often, his frequent practise and battling with his boomerang, and his ongoing exploration of Gran Pulse, he'd put on a decent amount of muscle. His hair had been bleached near-white by the constant sunshine. He drew the eyes of more than his fair share of girls and women. He knew his father was waiting for the introduction of a girlfriend.

He pulled his thumb over the simple carvings. Five.

And yet, he knew there might never be one. A girlfriend, that is. His ill-fated hook-up with Claire all those nights ago had proved that. He'd only hurt her. He'd betrayed Light's memory. And he hated himself for it.

It probably wasn't the way Sazh had meant for him to take it, but he was going to prevent that from ever happening again. He'd protect himself. And he'd preserve his memory of Lightning.

* * *

The 2125th day after she left, he was moving out.

"Don't hesitate to call, okay?"

Hope grinned confidently from over the box he was loading into his friend's car. "Shouldn't _I_ be the one saying that, dad?"

Bartholomew gave a quiet smile.

"You _could_ help us out here, Tonerre," Hope prodded at his soon-to-be workmate who was currently perched on the steps of the house. "Boxes don't move themselves."

Tonerre laid back against the hot concrete. "I'd rather not. For a guy, you have a lot of stuff," he explained.

"I got the last of it anyway," Aaron announced from the doorway, gripping Hope's many schematics from over the years, rolled up and stored in a cylinder.

Hope knew to go back inside, now. "I'm going to do a once-over," he told them, knowing they would assume he was going back to say goodbye and get mushy. They'd leave him be.

He went straight to his desk and pulled open the very top drawer. He'd left her knife here last night, after staying up late packing everything into boxes. Her knife was there when it wasn't in his pocket. He flipped up the blade, and flipped it down again. Up, down.

He went to his window. The view of the pillar was good today. Not a cloud in the sky, and no construction cranes in the way. It was noon, so the sun shone from high above, making the crystal glitter. Soon enough, he'd be circling that pillar to another part of Gran Pulse, to live on his own. It'd be a different view, sure, but to him it was like running across the planet with your eyes fixed on the sun.

The car emitted a loud honk, and Hope knew that was his signal. One last look.

* * *

The 2270th day after she left, he got a letter in the mail.

Physical mail was hardly sent anymore, so he knew it was either spam or something highly important. Funny how that was. He hoped it wasn't highly important. Even after several months, a lot of his mail still got delivered to his father's house.

He turned the envelope over in his hands. Sure enough, it was addressed to his father's house. How late was this one, he wondered. His name was written in perfect calligraphy. He took a letter opener to the crease.

_You are invited_

To the wedding of

Serah Farron & Snow Villiers

At The Grand New Bodhum Event Hall

On the date of 77, year 7 After Fall

Hope read the date again. Day 77... no. It couldn't have been...

He checked his phone. It confirmed what he already knew. The date it read sent ice shards into his stomach. Day 79, year 7.

He'd missed their wedding by two days.

* * *

The 2272nd day after she left, he had a cake smashed into his face.

"Happy birthday, Hope!" chorused the room, the errant "Happy birthday, Estheim!" mixed in.

He wiped the cake from his face very efficiently, managing to get giant globs off all at once. Unfortunately, some ended up on his shoes. He internally shook his head. Twenty-one. Twenty-one, and his friends still liked to pull stunts like this. "Thanks, guys," he said flatly, to the uproarious laughter of many in the room.

"I think you look sweet," Jorden giggled from in front of him. Jorden was a high-spirited, dark-haired co-worker who reminded him of Vanille. He couldn't really see her through the layers of cake encrusting his hair. Her fingers went in without hesitation, managing to get out a lot of cake, but also matting his hair. "Is it tasty?"

"Luckily," he said, to which she giggled again.

She licked one of her fingers, much to his horror. "Yep, it's real good."

"That couldn't have been sanitary," he grimaced.

She grinned. "It's your face the cake smashed into, Hope."

He raised his eyebrows. "It's your finger, Jorden."

She just smiled, shook her head and pushed him off to the washroom to get himself cleaned up.

* * *

The 2438th day after she left, he was holding a bouquet.

"Good morning," he greeted.

"Morning," his father said. Hope stepped into his old house, and regretted his decision to come early. His father was barely awake, judging from the pajamas and gristle at his chin. Sure enough, his father excused himself, and Hope gravitated to the usual spot on the mantle.

After staring at the photo - he had his own copy at home - he bent and found a vase on a low shelf. He filled it with water from the kitchen tap, then stuck his flowers in unceremoniously. He carried it back to the mantle, set it the right distance from the photo. Then he sat on the couch.

"You could've found some breakfast," his father said from behind him, some minutes later. He was fiddling with his cufflinks, the ones Nora had given him years ago.

Hope kept his gaze on the picture, a candid of his mother taken from over her shoulder. She looked as if she had just noticed the camera, her smile too radiant to be postured. "I'm alright," he said quietly.

Bartholomew crossed the room to the photo and the fresh flowers. Hope once thought his father was cold and hard, all starch and straight lines. But as he got older, and as his father got older, he noticed other things: his voice, tired and worn like fraying silk, the way his flesh seemed looser on his bones.

"How are you, Hope?" Bartholomew asked, sitting next to him on the couch. He did not ask the question casually, looking full into his son's face.

He might as well be honest. This was one of the rare times he'd taken his gloves off, and he buried his face in his hands. "I miss them both."

Bartholomew glanced at the picture of his wife, then at his son. He exhaled slowly. "We've been ruled our whole lives by the people we love."

His father was right. For Hope, it was Nora and Lightning. And Hope knew that for his father, it was his mother and himself.

He hadn't fooled his father for one second, had he?

"No, you didn't," his father said.

* * *

The 2559th day after she left, he was issuing a challenge.

"You should put your money where your mouth is," he called across the ring, gunblade in hand, as spectators gathered.

Hope knew that prejudice still existed. Even though PSICOM and Guardian Corps had consolidated into the Command Corps, the PSICOM mentality had managed to survive through a few soldiers into the next generation. It was only a matter of time before he ran into someone with such a mentality, and someone who was willing to speak out on it as well. Still, he was shocked when he heard a soldier speak about him, but he was not as shocked as he was angry.

"Shouldn't have let a _l'Cie_ into the ranks," griped a young man with the stripes for sergeant. He spit the word _l'Cie_ like a person would spit _racist_ or _excrement_. He held court with a few other sergeants and corporals, and his comment had sparked a few murmurs. Just as a pair of corporals had left the circle, Hope waltzed up.

"What's this I hear about l'Cie?" he asked, keeping his tone of voice carefully neutral.

Instead of being intimidated by a superior officer, the young man - fresh out of college, probably - smiled sadistically. "You heard me. You probably got in on _daddy's merit_."

Hope grit his teeth. The brat didn't know just how hard Hope had worked to get to where he was now. His father did have a lot of clout, but Hope had not taken advantage of one iota.

"Either that, or you got hired by some sucker who fell for your pretty boy looks," he guffawed loudly, as if this was funny, and searched for a hand to slap with a high five.

Now, Hope charged headlong at his opponent, and in a fashion he thought Light might appreciate, swiftly disarmed him. He pointed his army-issued axis blade at the coward's nose, cutting off any chance of recovery. He stared down the length of his arm at the young man, who was suddenly looking pale.

He smiled. He felt Lightning's spirit in the ring with him. " _That's_ what a l'Cie can do."

* * *

The 2683rd day after she left, he was choking on his drink.

He was turning a little pink, coughing embarassingly loud at his neighbourhood cafe. The barista who knew his order - Maggie? - looked over and smiled sympathetically. He could only cough louder and wish to some divine entitity to sink into the ground.

"Are you done?" Jorden asked from across the table, where she was comfortably sipping her extra-hot, non-fat, sugar-free chocochococaffalatte. Or something.

Hope glared at her as threateningly as he could, which was not very, since he was hacking up a lung.

She grinned angelically back at him. How had he ever thought she was like Vanille?

"That was your fault," he croaked as soon as he was done choking.

"How?" she dared to ask, and flippantly too. "You shouldn't have been surprised."

He was pretty sure he was pouting as he thought back to just a few minutes ago when she'd confessed that she'd crushed on him for over half a year back when they first met. Coming back to the present, he asked, "How could I _not_ be surprised?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you _seen_ yourself? For that matter, have you heard yourself talk about manadrive design and alternative energy? Who wouldn't fall in love with you?"

He began to turn pink again, and not from lack of air.

"But after a few months of endlessly dropping hints, I figured you weren't interested." She looked out the window now, maybe a bit embarassed. "From what I've heard, you've never had a girlfriend."

Hope took his drink in hand and half-hid behind it. He tried to evade. "You're a hopeless gossip. Did Aaron tell you?"

"Is it true?" she retaliated.

He just said, "It's true."

Jorden turned back to him. "So what's the story there?"

"No story," he lied. But his breath hitched, giving him away.

Jorden continued to look at him coolly. "So you're not in the closet? No scarring romantic history?"

He nearly choked again, and wiped his mouth with his fingers. "Not in the closet."

"But scarring romantic history," she deduced quickly. "Her name?"

He levelled a look at Jorden that would be his litmus test. Either she backed down or rose up. No one outside his old circle, excepting his father, knew. "You really want to know."

She leant across the table, fixing him with her bright blue eyes. He knew right then and there that she'd passed with flying colours. "Tell me all about her."

* * *

The 2968th day after she left, he was wearing a tie.

It was the second day after his promotion, and he had carefully gone over his tie with his iron the previous night. He had five of the damn things back in his closet at home, all part of the mandatory uniform for the Academy, the scientific branch of the Command Corps, and the centre of research & development. He'd been made head of his department as well. He was in charge of research into alternative energy sources.

He tugged uncomfortably at the turquoise blue leash as he sat at his desk, loosening the knot slightly. He scanned the paper in front of him, reviewing the methodology, looking for causes of error.

When he'd had enough, he sat back in his chair. The paper was the same as every paper he'd read since high school. Was this a dead end? Was there a way to mass-produce energy that was not, at any step, connected to a fal'Cie? He knew he'd been appointed to this position because of his experience, but he was wondering if he was cut out for this.

His eyes swept over his new desk. Transfer papers he had to fill out, to make his position official. Picture of Nora. Picture of his family. A dinosaur that Dajh had made for him years ago.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted his boomerang leaning against the wall. He had to admit that he was itching to fight again.

Well, being head honcho, he could do quite a few things. And he was definitely up for some field research.

* * *

The 3112th day after she left, he was dancing.

As Aaron's best man, he was basically required to dance, and dance he did. He hadn't sat down for five songs. He twirled girl after girl around the dancefloor, was whipped by their hairsprayed hair, occasionally had his toes stepped on, and looked away more than once from their cleavage, threatening to burst out of their dresses.

Once the song ended, he let go of his partner's hands and clapped for the band. They were really very good. He bowed to the girl across from him and she tittered, then slinked away to hair-whip some other poor guy.

He made a beeline for his chair, but was sadly intercepted. He didn't have it in him to refuse a dance. Especially not from the bride.

Hope looked over her shoulder at Aaron. He mouthed _you better dance_ , then took his mother-in-law's hand. Hope held out his own for the bride.

Rya was a beautiful woman. Five years Aaron's senior and seven years Hope's, she commanded an already-famous platoon in the Command Corps as a general. Hope honestly didn't know what she saw in his goofus of a friend, but it was apparently enough to get her to say _I do_.

"Hope, when will I be attendance at your wedding?" she asked him now, smiling like she always did - a bit calculating.

To buy some time to compose an answer, he spun her out, making her dress swish in a spectacle of white, and pulled her in again. "I think I'll find a girlfriend first, Rya," he replied dryly.

Her hand was at his bicep, and she hit him softly. "And when will that be? Your dating record is infamously clean."

It seemed that everyone was on his case lately. Even the people who knew about Light. _Especially_ them. It was all Sazh talked about, all _Dajh_ talked about, all Jorden talked about. Even his father had dropped some hints on his last visit to Hope's home - _sure could use a woman's touch._

He looked down at the new bride in his arms. "I don't know, Rya. I'm happy this way." It wasn't a complete lie... he didn't know what it was like to have a girlfriend. But he also couldn't see anyone else other than Light.

Rya just looked right back at him. "Now there's an answer crafted to break a newlywed's heart."

He gulped.

"Hey Hope, stealing my lady away already?" Aaron teased, appearing out of nowhere. Hope hadn't even noticed the song had ended. He let go of Rya, and she him.

He looked up to catch them starting a new dance. They weren't talking to each other, weren't even looking at each other. Her head rested against his collarbone and her eyes were closed. He angled his mouth to whisper in her ear. There wasn't any one thing that was very romantic about the way they were together, but somehow...

A new girl was standing at Hope's side, asking to dance. He mechanically took her hands, eyes still on the newlyweds. They moved slowly, gracefully, two halves of a whole. He danced with a perfect stranger. She asked him a question he didn't hear.

And he wondered: was he missing something?

* * *

The 3232nd day after she left, he was working on his velocycle.

He'd returned from Vanille's canyon a few hours ago, and instead of making a late lunch, he went to the garage and took apart his velocycle's engine. He'd been at it for almost two hours when his phone rang. He let his answering machine pick up twice before answering the third time. The caller ID told him it was Jorden.

"Hello?" he said, the smallest hint of annoyance finding its way into his tone. He pinned his phone between his shoulder and ear, his hands still at his velocycle's engine.

"Hey, Hope! I have good news," she announced.

He knew to be wary. Good news for her didn't usually mean good news for him. As he took a wrench in hand, he prompted her, "What is it?"

"I set you up!"

He almost asked, _with what?_ , but the bait in her voice made him reconsider. He kept quiet and tightened the nut connecting a piston to the frame.

Jorden's sigh came on cue. "On a date, genius. I set you up on a date." Then she mumbled something about how a normal person would know what a set up was.

Hope set his wrench down and took off his workgloves. _This_ just may require his full attention. "You _what_?"

"Don't act all mad. I told you last time that if you didn't go out on a date soon that I'd take matters into my own hands."

He realized he was crossing his arms, and quickly uncrossed them. He took his phone in hand. "Jorden. I don't want or need a date."

"Hope," she said, and her voice was so full of authority that he thought she would make an astounding mother someday, "Hope Estheim. You are going out at the end of the work week for dinner. You will be charming. You will be engaging. Because this is my friend, and because she is nice. And because you need to see what it is like to date."

"No, I don't," he responded. He didn't need to see what a date was like, and certainly not with a stranger. His first date wouldn't be with a stranger.

Jorden huffed over the receiver, and it turned into a weird static. "For Odin's sake! You're twenty-three! Please, Hope."

He stared at the closest wall of his garage. Tools of every variety hung from pegs, metal sheets lay in stacks. Manadrive models of every market variety littered his workspace - some definitely not market variety. He'd created so much, modified the world around him. Always in control.

"Hope, I'm not trying to make you forget Light," Jorden told him truthfully after a long pause. "It's a simple dinner date. No obligations." Her tone was conciliatory now, and he knew he'd fallen straight into her trap. "Please."

He sighed. She won, of course. He pulled on his workgloves again. "Fine."

Her delighted squeal nearly deafened his right ear and made him go back on his word. But before he could utter two words, she launched into a monologue. "Yes! Okay, dinner's at 8 - that's at 20 hours for you ultra-military folk - and it's at The Boulevard. I pulled some strings and got you a complementary dessert, anything off the menu, though I'd recommend-"

Hope listened to his friend chatter about the best food, the best thing to wear, the best conversation pieces, all while he pieced his engine back together. And he found it sort of comforting, that she cared enough to meddle in her own way. He nearly thanked her, but then he shook his head, deciding that was too far, and laughed.

* * *

The 3237th day after she left, he discovered a windfall.

Done with compiling data from his most recent field work, Hope began to poke around the R&D database. All the alternative energy research he was over-familiar with. The mineralogical he'd dabbled in very briefly - some new researchers wanted to see if combustion of any newly discovered minerals provided lasting energy, and that was fun but unrewarding. Weaponry development he was also familiar with - he was a bit of an authority on gunblades, which earned the jealousy of that department's head. It wasn't until he came across a new department called Historia Crux that he found his interest piqued.

The papers seemed to be an amalgamation of research spanning well over ten years, and reports of instances of time travel.

He stopped reading. Time travel.

He forced himself to breathe deeply. He'd never considered time travel.

The last 9 years... His mind skipped over it all quickly, all the overnights in Vanille's canyon, all the drawings of gunblades, all the times he'd put Light's knife in his pocket just to feel the weight of it...

His throat tightened. How could this be?

His phone beeped. He read the text message numbly. Jorden telling him to wear a tie out on his date tonight.

He stared at the words in front of him, not seeing them. He could cancel. He could transfer to the Historia Crux project. He could see her face again. It was all right there.

* * *

The 3240th day after she left, he was forking pie into his mouth.

"The verdict, son?"

Hope chewed a little more, drawing out his father's tension. When Bartholomew started to catch on, Hope swallowed and smiled. "Very good."

His father grumbled as he cut his own slice, but he was wearing a frowning smile. "Someone got playful."

Hope shrugged and continued to eat at the kitchen island. Dessert was not a luxury he often had. And he'd never expected it to come from his father's oven.

"Any reason behind that?" Bartholomew prodded. Hope might have been intimidated (lesser men had definitely broken at that tone), but his father was peeling off a blue apron, and he could only hold back a laugh. He took another bite of the delicious pie.

"Jorden tells me you went out on a date."

Now, Hope halted his eating. "You two gossip like old ladies."

"How'd it go?" His father was dogged, but he still found the time to cut into his own slice. The filling oozed out, steaming. The sight was enough to make him pick up his own fork again.

"It was fine. The food was great, and she's in weaponry so there was a lot to talk about."

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. Obviously, this description was not good enough.

He spoke around his fork, avoiding his father's gaze. "I just didn't _feel_ anything."

Bartholomew's disappointment was not as strong as Hope expected it to be. He was pleasantly surprised when his father smiled. "Well, at least you're happy."

He hadn't thought much on it, but he knew his father was right - he really was happy. How could he remember the past so clearly and not the present? And now, it was so obvious, of course - somewhere along the line, he'd started laughing more. He took a sketchbook with him all over Gran Pulse and drew scenery. Light's knife stayed safely in his desk drawer at home.

He looked over at his father, and his father looked over at him. They broke out into smiles at the same moment. Then they continued to eat in companionable silence.

* * *

The 3381st day after she left, he bolted straight up out of bed.

That was it! The breakthrough he'd been sitting on all these months had finally coalesced into something he could act upon.

He jumped into the shower and went over all the details he'd need to iron out - security clearance, the team he'd need, the much larger budget he'd have to argue for. He could do it. He _would_ do it. This was the solution Pulse needed.

He pulled open his closet door too hard, and grabbed one of his many uniforms. He hurriedly did his tie - the years had made him an expert - pulled on his gloves, strapped his boomerang to his back, and plucked his keyring off its hook. It was too early to go into work, but this couldn't wait. He'd pounce on the director first thing.

As he blasted through the light traffic on his velocycle, Hope thought back to the evening he'd discovered the Historia Crux project. He'd been on the cusp of abandoning alternative energy research. The thought scared him now. He leant lower over the handlebars of his cycle and shook his head. He couldn't have left this project without losing a part of himself. Breaking free from the fal'Cie was all he wanted once he found out the truth about them. That desire hadn't been borne from the confusion of becoming a l'Cie, nor had it simply been transmitted to him from the others. It was just as real for him as it was for Light and everyone else.

Going back in time wasn't what he needed, and now he knew it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want to see Light that way, if it was even possible. He wanted this, he wanted a future he had made. He wanted to be free.

He knew she lived on in him. He'd do her proud.

* * *

The 3550th day after she left, he was watching the past.

Serah was fighting a gogmagog, and she definitely wasn't 28, the age she was supposed to be. He guessed that meant one of the energy sources he'd found and submitted just recently worked in conjunction with the Historia Crux, though there were still a lot of kinks to work out in his time.

Suddenly Serah shrieked, the gogmagog nearly upon her. Hope charged thundaga and flung his boomerang before he could think. When Nue returned to him, the gogmagog was still falling. He sheathed his weapon.

Then he felt eyes on him. For the first time he noticed a man with Serah, and it wasn't Snow. It was just the two of them. He supposed that in this Serah's time, Snow hadn't returned with Lightning. His gaze fell to the ground shortly.

"Hope?" Serah exclaimed. She stepped gingerly over the fallen gogmagog's hindleg, nearly tripping, as her eyes stayed focused on his face. Her hair was as pink as ever, and her voice just as sweet. "Is- is that you?"

He smiled. Either she wasn't used to time travel, or he wasn't perceived as a guy who took down monsters. He addressed her directly, "I'm grateful you remember me."

Her eyes softened then, and she was looking at him like she was still the older one. "Of course I remember." She was looking at him like it was all fresh, like he was a man who still loved her sister.

And though it was true as it had always been, he thought to himself that maybe he could teach her something about the flow of time.

* * *

The 3562nd day after she left, he was holding a moogle puppet.

"Take care of it, okay?" the little girl asked him, then skipped over to the crystal pillar ahead of him.

He followed her. At this point, he would usually already have Light's knife out, ready to carve a new line next to the others. Instead he was holding a moogle puppet, strongly reminiscent of the ones he'd found over his travels over Cocoon and Pulse. He raised his eyes to the girl, who was standing right at his tally. She raised her arms to try to brush her fingers over the carvings, but she was too short. Hope remembered back when the tally had been at the perfect height. It was too low for him, now.

"Mister, mister! Can you help me?" she called. The bell-like chime of her voice startled him a little. He hadn't been around kids for so long. The youngest kid he knew was not really a kid - at 16, Dajh had long been a teenager.

Hope went to the girl, carrying her puppet carefully in both hands. Instead of asking her circuitous questions like most adults would, he told her, "You'll have to hold your puppet."

She pouted at him like she expected him to grow a third arm. He tilted his head and smiled at her. She thrust her hand out. "Okay, mister. Now help!"

"Say please."

" _Pleeease,_ " she said loudly.

He knelt to pick her up, then lifted her so that her nose was right at the tally. Her moogle puppet slumped in the crook of her left elbow. "Wo-ow." Her small fingers ran over years six, seven, eight, nine. "Do you know what it means?"

He set her down and edged over to face her. "It's a record."

The little girl's eyes lit up instantly. "Of what?"

"Of how long my friends have been holding up Cocoon." Though it was not the entire truth, he found it slid out of his mouth with little difficulty.

The girl smiled big. "This is _yours_?" She leant forward and almost headbutted him in doing so.

He nodded.

"Your friends are Oerba Yun Fang, Oerba Dia Vanille and Claire Farron?"

He furrowed his brow. She had said their names so easily. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

She clamped the moogle tighter to her side. "School!"

He lowered his head to look at the ground briefly. Oerba Yun Fang, Oerba Dia Vanille and Claire Farron being taught at school.

When he raised his head he found the little girl picking at a loose thread on her puppet. "Hey, do you want to hear a story about my friends?"

Her eyes grew huge and she sat down quickly on the ground. "Yes!" she crowed.

He mirrored the girl, sitting on the dusty ground. And he began to tell one of the many stories they'd made all those years ago, together.


End file.
